"On Tuesday morning, April 12, Judar Pasha woke well before dawn.[2] Like many men, he had passed a fitful night. Outside, he could hear the sound of the camp breaking up. Crabby animals. Anxious men. The air in the tent was heavy. There was a shaft of lighter darkness from the flap. Otherwise, the blackness was absolute.

Judar's eyes refused to adjust. He began to grope, for his chain mail vest, for his cloak. After a few moments, he managed to locate his boots, rearranged by his nocturnal perambulations. As Judar emerged from his tent, his servants moved in to begin packing up.

He waved away the proffered tea. In a moment, he gestured. Taking several steps toward the river, Judar relieved himself while scanning the emerging landscape. The land he surveyed was a nondescript tract of desert named Tengodibo, near Tondibi, about fifty kilometers north of Gao, in the east of present day Mali. It was the transitional time of day. Comfortable. The mosquitos had drunk their fill and retired to digest, and the sandflies were not yet up. The first streaking rays of light revealed the few features, the great artery, pale and uninterrupted, a few clusters of acacias, and, of course, great stretches of sand. Cooking fires revealed misty air. Somewhere beyond, out in the murkiness, the Songhay were also stirring. He was grateful they had not attempted a night attack. Such had been his greatest fear. Had the Songhay rushed them en masse they might have been overwhelmed. But, Alhamdulillah, the askiya, as the African king was called, had opted for a daytime confrontation…"Main pagelink